Adaptive Curmudgeon

Gravity Report

The weekend was not kind to yours truly.

Last week I parked my truck, stepped out and… BOOM. Flat on my fucking back! There was a patch of ice about 3 feet long and 2 feet wide right where I’d parked. It was an inch thick, crystal-clear, and slick as snot. I had no warning whatsoever. I went down hard! For a millisecond every muscle from my big toe to my shoulder was stretched to exactly 101% of its proper length and then I landed like a sack of wet cement. I hurt everywhere. That said, I am fortunate. I picked up a few bruises, a zillion stretched muscles, and a crushed ego but nothing worse than that.

Two days later I was feeling much better; a regime of aspirin and sleep had done its magic. (I’ll admit that I probably whined all weekend to a long-suffering Mrs. Curmudgeon. What can I say? A true stud would “walk it off” and suffer in silence but I’m only human.)

I was happily getting some household chores done, standing on a ladder with a power drill in hand when… CRUNCH. The cheap aluminum ladder I was using just plain folded on itself! Not folded up mind you; I mean the side struts that bear weight suddenly flexed laterally and gave out. Luckily, I rolled with it. Me and the ladder and the drill all wound up going ass over teakettle. I came to a stop wrapped around the bent ladder about six feet from the starting point of our little adventure. It coulda’ been bad but I came up roses. No banged body parts or blood… just a brief moment of silence while I pondered a near miss. Also a few minutes of confusion while I looked for the drill that was flung halfway across the room.

I don’t even know where that ladder came from. Probably the Russians. (Like all rednecks I’ve got lots of tools, some good and some bad.) I’ve got a damn fine ladder stashed elsewhere. I should have been using that. This was my “auxiliary backup ladder” that was just hanging around. I only use it for small jobs. Well, not anymore. I use it for no jobs. It’s bent and useless, not that I’d ever trust it again even if I fixed it.

It has tried to kill me. It failed. I must destroy it for its insolence. It’s already in the back of the truck; awaiting a trip to the dump. I hope it gets crushed or recycled or buried or whatever toot sweet because I don’t want some hick fishing it out of the trash and taking it home. The damn thing is dangerous. It has a taste for blood too. I should bury it and salt the earth above it’s grave.

Having taken a huge beating on a parking lot and narrowly missed an even worse situation a few days later I was on pins and needles for whatever came next. An asteroid strike perhaps?

Instead nothing so epic. A small but annoying head cold came out of nowhere and stuffed me up. One of those “not a lot of pain but forget about breathing” situations. I’m still limping a bit and running on fumes from lack of sleep. (Sleep? What’s sleep to a person who’s busy trying to breathe!)

Fuckin’ spring. It’s gonna’ kill me for sure.

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